


Bedtime

by MUSEquera



Category: Muse
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Friendship/Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-14
Updated: 2013-05-14
Packaged: 2017-12-11 20:25:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/802849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MUSEquera/pseuds/MUSEquera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone doesn't like showers. This is the result.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bedtime

"Make me!" he says, standing defiantly on his bare feet, still in his gig clothes, chin up, fists held rigidly at his sides, magnificent even mid-snit.

 _Oh, god, here we go again._  
  
Sometimes living with him is like minding a mouthy twelve year old. I know it's a lost cause, but I decide to give reason a try, "Please, love, you're covered in dry sweat, and you really stink."

"Well, I don't care!" is his typically mature—not—reply. Turning his back on me, he moves to his side of the bed and starts peeling off his leather jacket, dropping it in a heap on the floor. Even in the middle of this stupid argument, my mouth goes dry with lust as he proceeds to pull his black tee off, the play of muscle under his skin and the way he wriggles his arse as he tries to get the shirt over his head going straight to my cock.

Tee finally off, he turns back to me, and I suppress a whimper at the sight of him, wearing just those damnably tight trousers, hair all awry, narrow chest expanding in righteous anger, "If I wanted to have a shower I would've had one at the venue." he spits at me.

Yeah, that will settle the argument.

I take a deep breath. I'm too tired for this, but there's no way I'm letting it go. "Your choice, but there's no way in hell you're getting in this bed without having a shower first." Before he can say another word, I pick up his pillow and throw it at him. "Enjoy your night on the couch."

For a moment he just looks at me, mouth open in disbelief; he knows I hate going to sleep without him. But then his anger catches up with him and his eyes narrow at me, his mouth closing into a tight line. If looks could kill, I'd drop dead right where I stand. Eyes radiating affront, he turns—no, that word doesn't do it justice; he flounces—and stalks out without another word.

_Well, this is a fine pickle you're in!_

I sit on the bed with a groan. Alone in bed while he sulks in the living room. And all because this infantile twat I'm in love with has an issue with basic hygiene. And is a stubborn, maddening idiot. Honestly, you'd think I'd asked him to sacrifice his first born child or something, the way he carries on. Leaning back on the headboard, I start banging my head against the wall in frustration.

Great. Now I'm tired and angry. And I have a headache. Way to go!

Knowing there's no way I'm going to sleep any time soon, I pick up the remote from the bedside table and turn the TV on, muting the volume, and flick through the channels for something to do. News? Nope. Sport? Nope. Romantic comedy? Riiiiight! Nature documentary? Yeah, sure, because I need to be reminded that he's not here—I don't think so...

I groan in frustration, throwing the remote at the wall, and it flies apart with a satisfying 'crunch'. Fucking awesome. Now I'm stuck with cute leopard cubs licking each other. He'd really enjoy that. I open my mouth to call him, but remember myself and shut it again with a snap.

_What are you doing???? You're supposed to be mad at him, you idiot._

I bang my head on the wall—again. Hard. God, he's infuriating!!! And I'm an idiot for letting him get to me this way. Ah, what the hell! I might as well get ready for bed and try to get some sleep.

I get up and do the rounds: lock doors and set alarm, studiously ignoring the huddled shape on the couch; glass of water from the kitchen; nightly bathroom routine; and finally back into the bedroom in my sleeping tee and boxers. Looking accusingly at the frolicking leopard cubs, I flick the TV off and flop into bed, pulling the covers over my head.

Damn his—painfully beautiful—eyes, I miss him.

I toss around on the empty bed, not knowing what to do with my arms. They ache for him. This is why I usually let him get away with murder. To keep the peace and avoid the arguments and have him securely tucked against me as I fall asleep.

Aaaaaaarrrrrrgggghhhhh!!!

_Listen to yourself! Just go to sleep and stop being such a big sook._

I grab one of the extra pillows and wrap my arms around it. Trying to convince my body that it's him I'm holding, I turn on my side, curl around it, and will myself to sleep. Eventually exhaustion wins and I finally, thankfully, drop off.

I wake up with a start to a pitch dark room, disoriented and heavy headed. "Whah?" I mumble, looking over my shoulder as the bed dips slightly. Still half asleep, I scramble back with an embarrassing squeal, heart in my throat, as a dark shadow looms over me. "Shhhh, it's just me." he says in a small voice, his hand on my waist.

_Deep breaths. Count to ten._

Had his voice held any hint of amusement at my girly squeal, I think I might have decked him. As it is, I turn over to face him, ready to give him a piece of my mind and send him packing back to the couch, but anger and frustration dissolve as he wriggles into my arms, his skin warm and damp and lemon-scented, wet hair dripping on my chest, words tumbling over each other, "I couldn't sleep. I missed you. I had a shower. I'm sorry."

What is a guy to do? I melt. That's what I do. Like the big sook I am.

I close my arms around him and I kiss him until I have no breath left in my lungs, and then I hold him to me and, dripping hair and all, I rest my cheek on top of his head and just breathe him in, listening to the little snuffling noises he makes as sleep overtakes him.

He's in my arms. Where he belongs.

I fall asleep with a stupid grin on my face.

 

 


End file.
